Alonzo gently pried the girl off of him. “Miss Octavia Leander, I would like to introduce my sister, Miss Tatiana Garret.”
Sister. That was worlds better. “Hello there. Do take care. He’s injured.”
“Injured?” Tatiana looked Octavia up and down, frowning. “Who are you? Alonzo, what happened?”
“Let us discuss the matter inside, please.”
The decor of the flat looked much the same as that of the hallway—generically upper class without any gaudiness. Five servants stood in line. One woman curtsied. “We’ve prepared his room, miss.”
Tatiana bit her lip. “My brother’s hurt. We need a doctor!”
“I’ll get to the pneumatic, miss,” said the servant.
Octavia shook her head. “That’s not necessary. I’m a medician. I can take care of him.”
A few of the servant girls looked aghast; the older men were more stoic in their clear disapproval.
“A medician!” The way Tatiana looked at her, Octavia might as well have announced she kicked kittens as a hobby. “Well, you’re not going to touch my brother with that hocus-pocus.”
Octavia bristled. “Hocus-pocus! I’ve healed him more than once and I’m quite qualified to do so again.”
“Ladies?” queried Alonzo.
Tatiana’s nose flared. Even when she was perturbed, her face was lovely—her cheeks rosy and rounded, nose pert, her lips broad. But then, a horse could be quite lovely as it kicked you in the face. “Magic. Alonzo, please tell me she hasn’t done magic to you.” At the word “magic,” the servants made slashing motions across their chests to show contempt.
“Tatiana.” Alonzo clutched his elbow to his side as he worked his bag’s strap over his head. A servant immediately took it from him. “Do not call for a physician. We do not wish to attract extra attention. Octavia is a medician, yes, but she is also an accomplished doctor. She will tend to my wound without use of a circle. That will also spare your blessed supplies,” he said directly to Octavia.
She almost growled at the compromise.
Tatiana did not look placated either. “I want her to promise that she won’t use magic in my house. If she does any healing, she must do it naturally. It’s just embarrassing otherwise! This is Tamarania, not Caskentia.” Her tone made her opinion of Caskentia quite clear.
Alonzo nodded. “I promise on her behalf.”
“I am standing right here, you know,” said Octavia.
Tatiana grimaced as she nodded. “Very well. I suppose she’ll need a room, too. She does require her own room, doesn’t she?”
Impertinent little twit. A girl her age needs a mother close by to keep her in line. A hot flush bloomed across Octavia’s cheeks. “Yes. I do.” She looked to the servants. “But foremost, I need boiling water, please, and clean bandages if you have them.” If not, she certainly had her own.
“Yes, of course, miss,” one of the girls stammered, curtsying.
Octavia looked to Tatiana. “Where can I tend to him?”
Tatiana’s haughtiness faded some as she looked to her brother. “Follow me.”
A countertop island in the kitchen was cleared. With the help of a chair, Alonzo managed to roll himself onto the top, groaning. Octavia set her satchel on the floor near her feet and briskly set up her workstation. Really, she despised doctoring. Not only was it slow, but it was such a gamble—wait to see if the mundane herbs worked, wait to see if infection set in.
Yet now, thanks to the Lady, my doctoring is not mere doctoring.
When she kissed Alonzo after using a leaf to revive him, she had felt an intense understanding of his body—and not in the way she wished at that particular moment. If he had had any lingering health issues, she had the sense that she could have remedied them.
Given how she was now able to hear so much more from every passing body, she wondered just what she could do. Only one way to find out.
She pulled out her doctoring kit. The sight of the bullet probes made her flinch; she had used one to kill the Waster Mr. Drury by stabbing him through the eye.
From what Octavia understood, Mr. Drury had been infatuated with her before they even met aboard the Argus. He had been the mastermind behind a poison attack that killed thousands of Caskentian soldiers; she had been the medician who, through the Lady, found the source of the toxins in the water and saved thousands more. Mr. Drury had intended to enlist her in the Waste’s cause and marry her as well—all due to some perverse admiration of her wit and strength. She didn’t mourn the man in the slightest, but regretted that a life had been lost at her own hands. A loss that the Lady supported, since the Tree’s leaf did not revive him.
With a shiver, she pulled out the straight scissors and cut Alonzo’s shirt. He sat upright, his hands bracing him on the edge of the table.
Tatiana made an odd keening sound, as many did when they saw a loved one’s blood. “I’ll come back in a while, Alonzo.” She planted a kiss on his knuckle and left with a rustle of skirts.
Water began to boil on the stove—goodness, electric stoves were fast. Octavia tugged back her headband a wee bit. His agonized song flared in her hearing. Oh, Alonzo, why must you so frequently be in pain because of me? At least he hadn’t lost his mechanical leg again.
“A servant stands just beyond the kitchen door,” Alonzo murmured.
Octavia already knew by the woman’s song. “To ensure my good behavior, I’m sure.” She grabbed the clean sheets the servant left on the counter, and began to shred them into strips. The cloth was silky and strong, far superior to anything she had ever used for bandages in Caskentia.
“With reason. As I warned you, attitudes are different here in the south.”
“Being a medician is not an embarrassment.”
“Not in Caskentia. Octavia, whenever you are complimented on your healing skills, what is the first thing you say?”
“That my power doesn’t come from me. It comes from the Lady. Why—”
“That is the distinction. In the southern nations, personal accomplishment defines a person. You do not claim credit. Beyond that, magic simply is not considered fashionable.”
“Fashionable. Bosh and tosh.”
“I know it perturbs you, Octavia, but this is an age of science. The idea of a giant tree fostering life is considered, as you put it, bosh and tosh to many educated people.”
Well, I’d like to see science explain this. Listening, she rested a hand on the smooth curve of his ribs just above the wound.
She knew the thrums of his pain, the exhaustion of his body, the coldness from the loss of blood. Immediately, she ached to reach into her satchel for her blanket and herbs. Her hand formed a fist. I will make my own circle. She let her eyes flutter half shut. She imagined the gold line of honeyflower around him and her herbs at ready. Pampria, for blood loss. Bartholomew’s tincture, to repair his chipped ribs. Heskool root, against infection. Bellywood bark, to counteract zymes. Linsom berries, to mend skin.
Stop hurting.
Alonzo sucked in a sharp breath. “What?”
The wound was still there, same as before, but she could sense a block to keep pain signals from reaching his brain. That ability could come in useful. She began to clean the wound with water and rags.
“Octavia?” He gave her a look, the sort that told her he was well aware she was doing something impossible, again, and that he wanted to learn more.
“Shush. Let me do my job.” By applying her will, the broken bits of bone pulled into place, the worst of the muscle mended. Hot prickles zinged to the top of her skull. She found herself bent over Alonzo, suddenly so tired she could scarcely move. His hands gripped her upper arms.
“I think I need to sit,” she said.
“Here.” He guided her to lean against his lap.
“This is rather comfortable.” Her cheek rested on his thigh, gaze outward. If she closed her eyes, she’d slumber in a matter of winks, his body’s thrum as her lullaby.
He managed a small laugh. His self-consciousness carried through his song. “ ’Tis good to know I am cozier than the cold kitchen floor.”
Oh, Alonzo. He was always so frustratingly proper and polite, so Mercian. The man had no idea how much she yearned to wrap both arms around him and kiss him for hours on end—just to be close to him, know his full heat, the hard contours of his body. To feel just how coarse his beard was beneath her fingertips, how his muscles tensed to compensate for the slight differences between his mechanical leg and intact leg.
But he was injured still, and she was afraid of what she would know through that kiss. What I just did without a circle should be impossible, now part of a long list of impossibilities I’ve committed. If I can heal through sheer focus, I could do the opposite. I could kill.
That horrible thought sobered her. She eased herself several feet away to a stool. Alonzo studied her, arms extended as if she were going to keel over at any instant.
She waved him back. “I should eat soon. It’s been an exhausting day. I have no intention of sprawling out on the kitchen floor.” He arched an eyebrow, and she continued, “If my plans change, I’ll be sure to let you know.”
“Please do. Though I might recommend other rooms of the household, as they are likely carpeted.”
“A very good point. I should create a priority list of where best to faint.” She scooted the stool beside his knees and sat upon the curved steel seat.
“As if you are the fainting sort, m’lady.” His blue eyes sparkled with mischief.
“What sort am I, then?” Behind her, the servant’s shoes scuffed on the floor. Octavia doubted the sound was an accident.
Alonzo bowed his head toward her. “The delightfully obstinate sort.” His words were a low rumble.
“Well, thank goodness for adverbs, or I might take offense at that.” They froze as those shoes tapped the floor again. A chaperone, and not just to prevent me from my hocus-pocus. Piffle. Alonzo straightened and cleared his throat as if in reply to their watcher, and Octavia looked to his injury again.
She did the rest of the work by hand, movements brisk. With the strips of cloth, she bound his torso tighter than any corset.
“There.” She slumped forward on the stool. The life-debt blessing from the Lady would speed his recovery as well. In her mind, she eased off on her control of his pain. The more pain he felt, the less tired she was. She stood upright. Interesting. Apparently, instead of spending herbs, I spent my own energy. How’s that for personal accomplishment by Tamaran standards, hmm?
Octavia sensed the servant scurrying away.
Alonzo glanced in that direction as well, making the same observation with different senses. “How did you control my pain?” he murmured.
“I could hear the cause and squelch it. The effort did take something out of me, but I’m feeling better now, really.” Worry crinkled his eyes. Before he could nag her, she continued, “Tell me about your sister. She’s how old, twelve?”
“Barely ten. I did not expect her to be here, though I know my mother has often sent her south in recent years. Tamaran schools are far superior to those of Caskentia. I last saw Tatiana two years ago, when I was on leave for my leg attachment. She has . . . come into her own.”
“That’s one way to put it. She’s managing this entire household. That’s impressive.” Ten years old. She was either a newborn or nearly born when Solomon Garret died, then.
His smile was apologetic. “Most all of Tatiana’s life, I have been away. To school, then war, then my time as a Dagger. When we are together, ’tis a special time.” He frowned as he sat up, a hand to his bandages. Octavia couldn’t help but admire the sight of his chest. He was an athletic man, and it showed. His skin possessed a creamy, warm undertone that simply begged to be touched.
She swallowed drily and tucked her hands beneath the ledge of the counter. “I’m just glad we’re together again. I know you said this flat was the place we shouldn’t go to, but I knew of nowhere else to possibly find you.” Bodies approached, their songs healthy and strong.
“Yes. We cannot stay here long. My surname is enough to bring danger upon this place. For us to be physically present draws even more danger.”
“What? You’re going to leave already?” Tatiana stood in the doorway. Her voice warbled. “You can’t go.”
“Tatiana. Come here.” Alonzo swung his legs to the side of the table. Tatiana leaned into his embrace, her forehead to his arm. Octavia couldn’t help a twinge of envy. “What has Mother told you of my employment?”
“That you were working for the Caskentian government. Every time I write her a letter, I ask if she’s heard from you. It’s been months and months since you contacted her.” She began to cry.
“Can you send the servant away?” he asked.
Tatiana nodded. The other woman departed with a formal curtsy.
“I have been on a special job this past while. I cannot share details, but ’tis vital that Miss Leander stay alive.”
Alonzo could not see the expression on Tatiana’s face, but Octavia could. The girl grimaced as if she had stepped in a fresh cow patty. “You’ve been hurt trying to keep her safe.”
“I have, and likely will endure more travails.” The siblings looked so alike, but Alonzo’s accent was lilting and pure Mercian. Tatiana spoke with the casual yet rushed accent of the city-states.
“I want you to stay here with me. I can hire more guards! You’ve never seen the islands before, Alonzo. There are the hydroponic gardens, and the port of entry—hundreds and hundreds of airships there! You’d love it! And tonight, Cook is going to make your very, very favorite, cardamom chicken with cashews, and there will be lemon curd with shortbread for dessert. Please, Alonzo.”
“We will stay tonight.” He grimaced, even as Tatiana clapped her hands in glee. “But we dare not linger. Tomorrow we must seek out the best libraries of the southern nations.”
“I know of many. I can write up a list.”
The servant returned to the doorway. Tatiana nodded her approval at the woman’s presence.
“Good.” He tweaked his little sister’s nose. “Do you have bolts of cloth here suitable for a grown woman’s dress?”
“Yes. Gigi sews mine,” said Tatiana, motioning to her dress and the servant behind her. The skirts swayed with grace. Many women had been wearing a similar cut in the plaza—no defined waist, but pleated cloth that fell straight from shoulder to knee.
“Alonzo, you’re thinking of a dress for me?” asked Octavia.
“Yes. That Percival white is too fine a target.”
If only he knew. “Considering everything we’ve been through, I’d like to keep my uniform on. Maybe a full coat would do.”
“Miss, pardon me, miss.” Gigi’s voice trembled. “Are you asking me to sew for the magus?” A pleading note crept in at the end.
“I’m not contagious,” Octavia muttered.
“Actually,” said Alonzo, “I can sew it. Simply provide the supplies and good light.”
“You can sew something of that complexity, that quickly?” asked Octavia.
Tatiana smiled smugly. “He’s always had a good hand for sewing. He used to make dolls for me. Whatever you need, Alonzo. Just ask!” Her tone made it clear that she wanted him to need other things, too. “Now we have to get out of here so that Cook can get to work. I imagine you both want to bathe.” She gave Octavia a pointed look.
“That would be lovely.” Octavia smiled in the face of the insult.
While Gigi showed Alonzo the sewing supplies, another servant emerged to guide Octavia. Almost wordless, the girl pointed out a guest room and neighboring lavatory, and then dashed away.
Alone in her room, Octavia marveled at the space and luxury. She yearned to throw herself down on the honest-to-goodness bed, but knowing the filth of her body and coat, she didn’t dare. Her wand sanitized things, but it couldn’t match the sensation of being cleansed by water. She glanced in the mirror—she looked like she had spent a week in the wilderness. She stuck out her tongue at herself, just because.
Someone tapped on the door. Octavia opened it to find Tatiana. The child stared up at her, hands primly clasped at her waist.
“I want you to know that I hate you.” Her tone was casual, her eyes like venom.
Octavia recoiled slightly. “I gathered that you weren’t that fond of me.”
“You don’t understand. You can’t. I learned to read and write by sending letters to my brother at the front, always afraid that he would die there. When Mother decided I needed to stay in Tamarania for tutoring, I didn’t want to do it. I knew Alonzo would never come here. Father loved Caskentia, so Alonzo has to love it, too.” She almost spat the words. “Now Alonzo finally comes and he’s not going to stay.”
“I’m sorry you’re not going to—”
“No, you’re not. You’re going to take him away. He won’t let me help after tonight.”
“He’s trying to protect you.”
“That’s what Alonzo does. It’s what he’s always done. But he only feels he has to protect me because he’s in danger because of you.”
Octavia gnawed on her lip and had no idea what to say.
“I saw how you were looking at him,” Tatiana continued. “You think he’s yours. Well, he’s my brother. No matter what happens to you, if you live or die, he’ll always be my brother. I love him.” Her fists clenched at her narrow hips, and she turned away with a flounce of skirts. A short distance away, she stopped. “Dinner will be ready in an hour.”
It was a threat, not an invitation. With that, Tatiana stalked away without looking back.
Her father dead. Alonzo absent. Her mother has practically abandoned her. So young to be filled with such hate.
Octavia closed the door again to compose herself. In truth, it was a shame Alonzo couldn’t be with Tatiana longer. His gentleness, his logic, would be a great positive influence on her. Maybe that time would come later, after they survived this, after Caskentia and the Waste focused on other things. Unfortunately, the only way they distract themselves is by seeking their mutual obliteration.
In the meantime, she would take care when Alonzo’s little sister offered any drinks, in case they contained as much poison as her words.
The nearby lavatory was as sumptuous as the bedroom. Octavia turned the bathtub tap and gasped at the immediate flow of hot water. It had only been a week and a half since her stay at the lush Hotel Nennia in Leffen, but it felt like months. Lifetimes. A bath, hot water and all. Oh, what a sweet blessing. Maybe afterward she could mend the edges of her medician blanket—and perhaps even grind that bag of dried pampria.
She stripped and loosened her hair as the tub filled. Steam clouded the room. She pulled the knife from her satchel’s kit and set it on the ledge beside the claw-footed tub.
I certainly hope I don’t need to use it, and certainly not against a ten-year-old girl.
Octavia sank into the water and sighed in bliss. Water flowed to her chest, her pale breasts buoyant, arms propped on the edges of the tub. Halfway down her left forearm, a small bandage covered the incision she used for bloodletting. The compulsion to bloodlet came directly from the Lady, usually every three or four days. Pressure would build up in her arm until she bled a few drops into the soil. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t had the need to bloodlet since they escaped from the Wasters—since her blood had temporarily caused that tree to grow.
She looked at the skin of her arm for the first time since then. An odd brown tinge framed the bandage.
Frowning, Octavia sat up. It couldn’t be dirt. The enchantment on her uniform wouldn’t have allowed it. She pried the bandage from the cantham wax beneath. The opaque wax showed the brown going all the way up to the fresh red of the incision; the wax prevented it from healing. She touched the colored skin. It was mottled and tough like a callus.
“How strange,” she murmured, and sank into the water again.
“MAYBE THE CLOCKWORK DAGGERS succeeded, and did it so quickly that we don’t even know we’re dead,” Octavia whispered.
“Why do you say such a thing, Miss Leander?” asked Alonzo.
“Because I am in the happy beyond.”
The library occupied a rotunda that probably could have held the entire clapboard structure of Miss Percival’s academy within its walls. Shelves towered a hundred feet, curved like a ship’s hull, stairs and lifts leading up to exposed walkways of riveted copper. Octavia breathed in the divinity of thousands of leather-bound books.
Alonzo’s grin was bold in contrast to his skin. “Holiness may be found by being in the mere presence of books, without even parting the pages.”
Octavia loved it when Alonzo’s poetic nature emerged—it always made her think of Father, how he muttered and cursed while he unfolded the rhythms of words as he sat by glowstone lamplight.
“It reminds me of how much Caskentia has really lost in the past half century. Not simply the men in the wars, but the books.”
The greatest libraries in Caskentia had burned in the infernal attack on Mercia soon after the princess’s kidnapping, and more had been lost in smaller attacks since. It was a rare delight to find a collection of old hardbound books in a single place.
“Remember our plan,” Alonzo murmured as he entered the labyrinth of metal shelves. She ventured down a parallel aisle; their separation the day before made her anxious about being apart, though Alonzo had counseled that they not stay too close. Flashes of his new black coat showed through gaps in the shelves.
Alonzo had provided a veritable list of tips on searching inconspicuously for information in public. Foremost, she was not to attract attention or be especially memorable. Yellow was a color currently in fashion here, so he had styled for her a simple overcoat to cover her medician robes. He hadn’t been pleased at her continued insistence on carrying her satchel—it had spoiled her previous effort to travel incognito—but he hadn’t pressed the point too much. He knew it would be a losing battle. A yellow ribbon overlapped her headband and had been accented by an enormous white silk flower that could practically double as an umbrella.
Certainly, I could buy new clothes here, but these robes are one of the few things I can still claim as my own. If I had a few days to devote to meditation, maybe I could enchant a new dress that wasn’t in Percival white, but that’ll need to wait until assassins stop pursuing us like hungry mosquitoes.
Alonzo’s other advice had been to move around often, even if she found a section of particular interest; never to ask librarians for help; and most importantly, not to save anyone with magic. The latter had been accompanied by a particularly severe look.
He stopped moving among the shelves. She stopped as well and scanned the books around her. Such a glorious perfume, these old books. This section focused on nationalities. She spied books on Mendalian dagger fighting, a multivolume set on the history of Warriors, biographies of the augusts, and a history of cocoa importation in the southern nations. She was glad to skim through this last as a decoy book, but was quickly disappointed to see the delights of cocoa reduced to soporific tax ratios, tonnages, and the woes of pod rot.
Alonzo circled behind her. “A few books on religion in Caskentia over there,” he murmured. “Take a look and see if anything on the Lady seems new. Look for five books in red.” His brow was lowered in consternation.
“What’s the matter?” she whispered.
“I expected more. I must make some delicate inquiries.” He walked down the aisle, a new tweed hat tucked under his arm. Delicate inquiries. Meaning he’s going to do things he told me not to do.
She studied the shelves he had pointed her to. The section labeled RELIGION consisted of some twenty books. The red books addressed all world religions by country and regional quirk. The Lady earned a few sentences in Caskentia’s section.
“The Lady’s Tree is a variation on the Lord’s Tree, as found elsewhere [SEE Grant, Vernon, Cashmere]. In recent centuries, numbers of faithful have declined; devotees are almost exclusively magi of the healing arts, known here as medicians. Medician schools indoctrinate their students in the faith of an avatar of God, a Tree who was once a grieving woman who wandered the Dallows. By invoking the Lady through a bound circle, miracles are achieved.”
Faith has declined, indeed. I knew almost nothing of the Lady until I met Miss Percival, and my parents were both teachers and well read. If they had known of an explanation for my need to bloodlet, they would have let me know. Instead, they watched me and worried. No parent, no child, should have to endure that painful ignorance.
She checked the other nations referenced. Those listings didn’t elaborate, instead forming an endless cross-referential loop. Sighing, Octavia slid the book back onto the shelf. A strange man approached. Young, heart murmur, still suffering from the lingering effects of inebriation. She looked up with a slight smile, even as a self-conscious flush traveled up her neck.
He wore a trim gray suit. Black kohl lined his eyes and thickened his eyebrows. “Can I help you?”
“Ah yes. I was just skimming books. On religion.” Blast it, Alonzo, I act about as incognito as a gremlin in a jewelry shop.
The librarian’s brows drew together. “You’re Caskentian?”
Balderdash. “Ah yes.”
“I’m surprised, that’s all. Most Caskentians can’t read. They don’t come in here.”
She wished she could argue with him but he was quite right. She had written letters home for hundreds of soldiers, which were likely received by families that were equally illiterate.
“I’m trying to explore matters of faith. Are there more books?”
“You could check the academic studies of mythology, but no, religion isn’t a relevant topic these days. If a book isn’t checked out in a decade, it’s sent to the basement, and after another decade without requests, it’s sold.” He shrugged.
“I see,” she said slowly. Alonzo approached; he paused to pull a book off the shelf, more cool and casual than she could ever hope to be. “My thanks.”
It took several more minutes for Alonzo to work his way down to her. “I’m rotten at this,” she muttered. “He was shocked a Caskentian could read.”
“I am sorry.” He turned his back to her as he skimmed a volume on regional variations within the folk art of making bread boxes. “In Caskentia, my skin sets me apart. Here, there is greater variety in coloration, but your accent will label you in an instant.”
“And my literacy,” she muttered. “But if I pretend to be mute, that makes me memorable as well.”
“Did you find anything of interest in the books?”
“Mention of other Trees around the world, including male ones. That was new. He also said they get rid of books that aren’t checked out in a long time.”
“The librarian I spoke with said much the same. I had hoped that religion would retain an academic interest here.”
“What do we do now?”
“Try other libraries. Await me by the gargoyle statue outside.”
And so it went, library after library. If the Lady and Tree were mentioned at all, it was to rehash what Octavia had already learned from Miss Percival.
“There must be something more,” Octavia muttered as they rode a tenth-level tram to yet another library. They sat side by side in an almost empty car. Afternoon sun failed to penetrate the constant clouds, though at least they were true clouds and not the persistent pollution said to smother Mercia. She rubbed her arm against her torso and sighed.
“Such books must exist. ’Tis a matter of finding them.” Alonzo stared out the window.
Octavia avoided the view and kept her satchel clutched tight on her lap. Her headband helped her tolerate the number of people, but the sheer density of the city bothered her. I’m a country girl at heart, even if it means a lack of libraries.
“So far, it feels like hunting for a cat’s whisker in a haystack. No one here is interested in magic or hokey religions, but someone must be buying the books since nothing has been remaindered in any of their storage rooms.”
“An interesting observation. Perhaps ’tis time for a change of tack at our next library.”
“Our last library, at least on your sister’s list.”
Tatiana had sobbed and wailed at Alonzo’s departure that morning, pleading for him to return. Alonzo vowed he would send word somehow. After this next stop, their priority was to find a doss house in which to spend the night.
“There are other, smaller libraries on the other isles, but I fear the reception would be much the same.”
A light rain pattered against the metal roof as they traversed catwalks down to the seventh floor of a skyscraper. At such a height, Octavia could see a hundred towers, maybe more, each a dark gray monolith against the mist. Still no sight of the sea, though. There was too much city in the way. A strong wind nipped straight up her skirt and made her convulse with cold.
This library occupied the full floor of a broad building. Few people utilized tables at the very front. A father sat with two young children at his feet as he read in a low rumble. A few women walked among the shelves, long skirts swaying. The rows of shelves reminded Octavia of the tidy furrows of a field.
In the fields back at the academy, the other girls will be planting tulip bulbs for spring. She rubbed the fingertips of her borrowed gloves as if she could feel moisture and grit. She had always loved planting times—she loved busywork when no one suffered.
“Walk on in,” Alonzo murmured. “I will make my inquiries.”
Octavia studied a display of copper novels that boasted of espionage, intrigue, and murder—published by Mrs. Stout’s book company, no less. Even so, she felt her lip curl in distaste. I fear my choices in pulp novels will be limited in the future.
“My professor assigned me to write a paper on the obscure religions of Caskentia and how they regard magic,” Alonzo was saying to a librarian. The woman clicked her tongue. “I know, I know. The man must hate me. The search has been futile. I lack the money to buy the books new . . .”
“The lot of students. I know it well.” Her smile was sympathetic.
My Caskentian accent makes me sound like an illiterate toerag, but his Mercian lilt immediately makes him appear like a Caskentian student here for a proper education.
“Do you know where I might buy remaindered library books on the subject? I am desperate.”
“I’m afraid I have bad news for you. When it comes to magic, august Balthazar Cody has likely bought them all. He’s known for his eccentricities.”
“Balthazar Cody.” Alonzo tested the thick name on his tongue. “Of Tamarania, correct? Does he own . . . ?”
“The Warriors’ Arena, yes. That said, there are a few books on the shelf I can show you.”
An august. That would be like a councilman in Caskentia. With the population here, that’s a position of great prestige. It’d certainly make an eccentricity like faith more tolerable.
Feeling awkward, Octavia pretended to study shelves as she worked her way toward Alonzo. The books here followed an inscrutable system involving decimals. She finally sidled up to him. He held a book entitled Old Faiths as he stroked his trimmed beard.
“I might make a Dagger of you yet,” he murmured. “You are improving.”
“I still feel like a blotto on a tightrope. I heard what she said. Balthazar Cody?”
“Yes. A dangerous man. My mother still speaks of him. He is a politician, through and through. It would be best to avoid direct dealings with him.”
“I have those gilly coins from Mrs. Stout. Could we bribe his staff?”
Alonzo held back a chuckle. “That is certainly standard procedure in Caskentia. Here, I am more reluctant to trust. It may be wiser to explore the weak links in his household, perhaps infiltrate his staff as employees, but even that may prove difficult for a man of that ilk.”
“Oh. That sounds as if it could take time.” She rubbed her arms against her torso.
“Weeks. Perhaps months. Do recall that snow will soon close the passes. We will need to wait until spring to venture to the Dallows if we still intend to find the Lady.”
“A task to keep us busy through the winter, then.” Octavia stared at the shelves but didn’t see titles.
“Not a bad thing, Miss Leander. As my father used to say, ‘Idleness leads to madness.’ ” He paused. “I must remind you, however, that our primary goal is to stay hidden and alive. Understanding your power more, perhaps stopping the Wasters’ abuse of the Tree, would be wonderful, and yet . . .”
Her throat tightened in frustration. “Finding these answers isn’t a hobby for me, Mr. Garret.”
“I know.” His voice softened. “I have seen how your powers have changed, even in the brief time of our acquaintance. I want these answers for you as well, but most of all, you must stay alive. ’Tis enough that we have Caskentia and the Waste in our pursuit. I would rather not involve Tamarania in the donnybrook, and certainly not a man of Mr. Cody’s might. I should add, he is not a mere politician. He created gremlins.”
“Did he?” She looked away and frowned.
Onboard the airship, Octavia had saved and nurtured a tiny gremlin that she had dubbed Leaf. She had known it was a foolish thing at the time, forming an attachment to a wild chimera—a biological construct born of science—and it had broken her heart to set Leaf free. To her shock, Leaf had returned when she had been imprisoned by the Wasters. Using his affinity for silver, he had broken Octavia and Mrs. Stout free of their chains. Octavia was certain his appearance was no accident; she had prayed to the Lady and then Leaf arrived. He had also had an odd reaction to the branch of the Lady, acting reverential in its presence.
The thought of the lost branch irritated her. So stupid, to lose part of the Lady like that. Now the only branch I know of in the west is in Caskentia’s royal vault.
The royal vault. Caskentia. The royals were always a subject of speculation and gossip. People still waxed nostalgic about King Kethan’s Golden Age. The other library had a section on nations; perhaps this one had books on more interesting subjects than cocoa tariffs.
“I’m going to check another shelf,” she murmured.
A few minutes of wandering, and she found the section. Caskentia actually had solid representation on the shelf. Bindings displayed a clear theme. The Caskentia Problem. The Endless War. An Academic Study of the First Caskentian-Dallows War, Volume I. Technological Advancements of the Golden Age. Of Mechanical Men and Inherent Poverty: A Study of the Caskentian Proletariat. She frowned and scanned downward. A small red volume caught her eye. Lord Chamberlain of the Golden Age.
The volume was one in a run of twenty, a printing of the logs of the palace lord chamberlain of both King Rathe and his son, King Kethan. Judging by the accumulation of dust puffs across the top, the topic was not of interest to Tamarans. She squinted at the narrow type as she skimmed, rubbing at her arm. At last, a hundred pages in, she found something.
Knowing of the studious nature of our young prince, a hunter today delivered a most astonishing gift. He explored our territory of the Dallows and thereupon claims to have found the Lady’s Tree of medician lore. To King Rathe he offered a branch of the Tree the size of a man’s arm, by all appearances wholly alive; a leaf, that resembles most any normal foliage; and a seed the size of a shelled almond, bright green to the eye.
As to why the man brought such bounty to court, he confessed that he had been cursed since leaving the Tree’s canopy. Threems nearly burned him alive, while wyrms thrashed deep furrows across the prairie. His horses, by all appearances healthy, dropped dead. When we informed the man that he had delivered a curse to the King, the hunter protested, saying the men of Caskentia’s court were known to be the wisest in the land. And surely, such holy artifacts would not harm someone blessed by God to rule our Fair Valley.
Prince Kethan himself placed the pieces of the Lady’s living body within the royal vault. To my surprise, he seemed troubled by the gifts rather than intrigued. “In my reading of his History of World Trees, Garcia said that blooded trees only produce one seed in a lifetime. If this new seed should grow in Mercia, our entire city would be overgrown!”
At this, we laughed, even as we were impressed, as always, by the erudition of the young heir and his eidetic knowledge of books. ’Tis my sincere hope that King Rathe be blessed with a long life, though the day when Prince Kethan claims the throne will surely be one of great celebration.
The volume resumed a few days later:
The words of the hunter and Prince Kethan returned to me last night as the earth rumbled. My first thought was of a mighty tree taking root and destroying the city, whereas people cried in the street that the Giant had awakened and we would all die of ash and fire. The sun soon rose and showed no ominous clouds from the mountain . . .
The Giant, being a massive dormant volcano just to the southeast of Mercia. The Waste’s recent designs on Octavia had included using her to keep their infernals alive past the volcano’s wards against fire magi. They had intended to undo the dormancy and destroy Mercia.
She flipped ahead but could find no other mentions of the vault or the artifacts. The slender book concluded soon after King Kethan’s ascent to the throne, with Queen Varya just announcing her pregnancy. The child who would be Princess Allendia, who grew up as a civilian named Viola Stout.
This meant that the Tree had been sighted only some sixty or seventy years ago. According to lore, magic keeps it hidden. Magic still must hide it to some degree. Caskentia’s airships have flown over the entire Waste. A Tree taller than any building in Tamarania would have been seen otherwise. And the infernal Lanskay said the trek to the Tree was still perilous. That implies it is accessed by foot.
As for the seed, Miss Percival had taught that it had the power to revive those who had been dead for a long while. Octavia had asked once if that meant there were people out there who were immortal as a result of the seed’s power. Miss Percival had said there was no way to know, and it was not something that should be known.
“Pardon, pardon,” said a woman as she pressed past. Her health rang as extraordinarily athletic—unusual for a woman—and that surprised Octavia enough to lift her head. She caught a glimpse of red hair cut in a short bob, a gorgeous contrast to ebony skin, and then the woman rounded the corner.
Octavia gnawed on her lip. The vault was the only thing left standing after the firebombing of the palace fifty years ago. Mrs. Stout’s bloodline is the key to entry. Maybe King Kethan did more research on these artifacts as he grew. He told Mrs. Stout when she was a child that they were the most powerful treasures in the vault. He knew something.
Maybe there’s still information there, along with the artifacts of the Tree. Queen Evandia can’t get in because of her blood. It would all be waiting for us, locked away.
How odd that she was actually considering a trip into Mercia—and infiltrating the palace, no less—after she’d fought tooth and nail against the idea when it was proposed by Alonzo back on the Argus. But this was different. She wasn’t going to stay there, or be in government custody. It could be a mere errand trip, that’s all.
She snorted. An errand trip into the very palace of Queen Evandia. I’m a flibbertigibbet. It’d be a suicide mission. And yet, if we made it inside the vault . . .
She rubbed her arm again and frowned, suddenly aware of what she was doing. The area around her bloodletting incision itched. She’d have to check on the discolored skin later.
Something clunked a few aisles away. Metal whined, followed by the sound of books—hundreds of books—thudding to the floor. Metal banged and clattered again. Screams pierced the silence. Books thundered against the shelf before her. Metal smacked, hard. Octavia backstepped as the shelf in front of her tipped. Books poured down in a violent hailstorm. Screeching, she covered her head with her arms as she dropped flat.
The world turned black in a crush of books.